


Red Roses

by andchaos



Series: pointless destiel drabble [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Day happens. Fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Roses

Dean liked to think that Sam was the sappiest one of their familial trio.

          So he wasn’t even particularly surprised when he walked into the bunker around noon and found Sam meticulously assembling and reassembling a large arrangement of white, yellow, and red roses. He’d even managed to find some blue ones. Dean rolled his eyes as he headed for the coffee machine and sat sipping coffee at the counter, silently watching his brother and formulating an ensemble of insults and taunts in his head that he intended to unleash as soon as he had his mouth unoccupied.

          Before he could finish, however, Cas stumbled in, rubbing his eyes and shrugging a sweatshirt on over his borrowed tee.  Both articles were baggy and too long, having been lent from Sam’s bottom drawer of least-used clothes, but at least Dean’s sweatpants, though very loose in the leg, were a comfortable length. He tripped to a halt a few feet from Sam, who, upon glancing over his shoulder, blushed and returned to his task.

          “What are you doing?” Cas croaked, accepting the coffee that Dean shoved into his hands.

          “Nothing,” muttered Sam, eyes on his hands’ work.

          “Samantha here must’ve met a pretty girl,” said Dean with a smirk. “Who is she? Cashier at the grocery store? Barista?” He huffed a laugh. “Did you hit her dog?”

          “Fuck you,” said Sam with more embarrassment than malice.

          “Why is he getting her flowers?” asked Cas, coming to lean beside Dean against the counter.

          “Cos he’s a sap,” said Dean matter-of-factly, at the same time that Sam said, “Cos it’s Valentine’s Day this Friday.”

          “Valentine’s—”

          “Yeah, you know. People think little crying babies fly around and shoot ‘em in the ass with arrows, making ‘em fall in love.”

          Cas squinted at him. Sam rolled his eyes and elaborated:

          “Cupids, Cas. He’s talking about Cupids.”

          “So why the flowers? Cupids are historically invisible to humans, and they don’t have any connection whatsoever to flora—”

          “It’s romantic,” said Sam before Dean could break in again. He pushed a white rose to the side slightly and then stood back, examining his work and apparently satisfied, as he proceeded to gather up the vase and pick up his keys. “When you’re into someone, you buy them flowers and chocolates on Valentine’s Day, and you ask them to be your Valentine. Then you guys go out to dinner or something.”

          Cas considered this, taking it in stonily as he did everything else. Sam bid them goodbye and went to go woo his mystery girl, and only after he had left and Cas had finished his coffee did he finally speak again.

          “But what’s the point?” he wondered, and Dean looked up from the newspaper he’d been perusing for jobs, startled and unaware that he’d been dwelling on the matter.

          “Beats me,” he said, shrugging. “I can go pick up girls whenever I want. Tequila is just as good as flowers for getting a girl into bed, and works ‘round the clock.”

          “Sam disagrees?”

          “Yeah, well, what does Sam know?”

          “Apparently romance,” said Cas blandly. He got up and left the room before Dean could react, and seconds later he heard the door slam.

          “Whatever, Neytiri,” he muttered, kicking his legs up onto the table and ruffling his paper straight.

 

Apparently Sam actually had some game, because a pretty young woman named Sarah kept him occupied for the remainder of the week. He never brought her back to the bunker, of course, but he spent so much time answering her calls that by Thursday Dean practically kicked him out, sick of hearing his ringtone play over the sound of the TV. He’d made a face but left, and Dean hadn’t seen him since.

          Valentine’s Day dawned the kind of sunny that was cloudless but not too hot. Mary used to take him to the beach on days like this, leave John and Sam home and take Dean out to the water to build sandcastles and eat strawberry ice-cream. Dean poured extra strawberry syrup on his pancakes that morning, a special container that he kept in the back of the cabinet for sunny mornings like this one. Cas thought he was keeping with the rouge theme he had witnessed Sam attending to as he wrapped Sarah a present in pink and scarlet ribbon, and Dean just nodded along.

          “Can I try some?” he asked, reaching for the bottle without an answer. Dean hesitated. Cas noticed and pulled his arm back, searching his face, and said, “I like the maple very much, too.”

          “No,” he said, surprising even himself. “Here. It’s Aunt Jemima’s, that’s the best kind anyway.” Sam always bought organic, but Dean had his vices.

          “Thank you,” Cas said quietly, still careful. Dean didn’t look at him while he poured it across his breakfast, but he heard the appreciative noises that followed, and smiled slightly.

          Afterwards, when they were slumped on the couch watching _Lifetime_ , Cas looked up from the cushion where his head was pillowed next to Dean’s thigh.

          “When are you leaving?” His voice held all the quiet innocence of wispy clouds, and Dean kept his eyes fixed on the television screen as his expression hardened just a tiny bit.

          “What are you talking about?”

          He turned onto his side, his head nudging Dean’s leg, his fingers reaching up to play with a stray thread on his grey sweatpants. “For the bar. Sam told me that you enjoy…I believe the words he used was ‘trolling for ass.’ Possibly he was quoting you.”

          Dean stifled a laugh at such a phrase coming from Cas’s mouth. When he controlled himself, he shrugged and said, “Oh. I don’t think I’m going to the bar tonight.”

          “What? Why not? Is something wrong?”

          He glanced to him and away, shifting uncomfortably. “I—I don’t know, man, I haven’t gone to bar in years. I thought I’d just stay in with you and watch movies or something.”

          “Oh.”

          “What? Like you’ve got big plans?”

          Cas turned again to stare at him, assessing. “That’s fine, Dean. I was planning on staying in myself. You’re very tense today, did I say something?”

          He didn’t answer, so Cas, too, lapsed back into silence and turned to face the screen, wisely keeping quiet until the credits started to roll. Even then, Dean was the first to move; he reached his arms out in a back-cracking stretch, yawning and then draining the rest of his second beer. When he noticed Cas starting to drift off beside him, he poked him sharply in the ribs and announced, “I’m hungry. Wanna get ribs? I bet Hooters is, like, _empty_ tonight.”

          “What’s Hooters?”

          “A twenty minute drive,” he said evasively. “You wanna?”

          Any plan of Dean’s was sketchy at best, but he agreed regardless and twenty minutes later found himself in the passenger seat of the Impala. He never got to ride shotgun anymore. It was nice.

 

Hooters, as it transpired, _was_ basically empty, just a few guys obviously not even trying to hook up with anyone, and in the corner, what looked to be a few of the waitstaffs’ girlfriends flirting over the bar. The maitre d’ seated them immediately, her wide smile not entirely able to mask her bored expression, and left them to their menus. Cas immediately found the juiciest, biggest burger on the menu, with three different kinds of cheese; Dean opted for the ribs, which was equally delicious in his opinion though slightly less heart attack-inducing. Cas had yet to learn that he wasn’t invincible in the way that new humans always thought they were.

          Halfway through his meal, grease and sauce dripping down his fingers, Dean abandoned his dinner and reached for one of Cas’s fries instead, and as he drew away from his mouth Cas suddenly lunged forward and grabbed his free hand and asked, “Dean, are we Valentines?”

          Dean choked slightly on his food, dragging his hand out of Cas’s grasp to pound against his own chest. Cas watched with mild concern while he freed his windpipe, hands folded neatly on his lap the entire time.

          “What? No! Why?”

          Cas shrugged, long fingers fiddling with the bun of his burger, tearing off pieces and discarding them in the ketchup.

          “Today is Valentine’s Day, Dean, and you’re buying me dinner. Isn’t that why the waitress offered to get us a candle?”

          “And that’s also why we _turned her down_ ,” Dean said, panicking slightly. “And the champagne.”

          Cas kicked at the floor, catching his ankle on the upswing. “I like champagne, Dean.”

          “That’s too damn bad, Cas. She already thinks we’re dating—No need to give her more fuel for her fire.”

          “But we’re not, as you so adamantly reiterated. What does that have to do with my getting champagne?”

          Dean rolled his eyes and kicked playfully at his shins under the table. “Because, bitch, you’re not my Valentine, so I’m not spending cash on you just to get into your pants. End of story.”

 

Cas disappeared when they returned to the bunker, so Dean went to set up a video game and sat himself down on the couch with another beer. He was just shooting through a horde of Nazi zombies when Cas suddenly planted himself in front of the television screen, and while his eyes traveled up to Cas’s face he could hear dying in the background. Cas’s expression was set, determined and serious, and when Dean lay his controller to the side and gazed up confusedly at him, Cas whipped his hand out from behind his back and shoved a handful of flowers in his face, a bizarre but not haphazard mix of roses and peonies and sunflowers and chrysanthemums. Dean blinked up at him, momentarily forgetting his game.

          “What the fuck are you doing?”

          Unfazed, he said, “Sam told me that when you feel affection for someone, you buy them flowers today.”

          “Uh. Right. But that’s _romantic_ affection, Cas.”

          “Yes.”

          “You don’t buy flowers for someone unless you like them, like, _romantically_.”

          “I didn’t buy them, I picked them,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s a field a two hours’ walk from here.”

          “Okay,” he said slowly, getting to his feet. “You don’t _pick_ flowers unless you’re _really_ into someone.”

          “Right.”

          “What?”

          “What?”

          “Cas, I—” He blinked. “Oh. _Oh_.”

          “What? Dean, I—”

          He was interrupted by Dean grabbing roughly at the collar of his trenchcoat with one hand, the other throwing the bouquet of flowers onto the couch beside him. He kissed him harshly, desperately. When Cas pulled back and said, “But I thought you said—” Dean just kissed him again, muttering, “Shut up,” and pulling him toward him so insistently that they both toppled over onto the couch, Cas on top of him, both of them a tangle of limbs and torsos. Their heads bashed together as they fell; as Cas rubbed at the sore spot with a disgusted expression, Dean laughed, his head tipping back onto the cushions. Then he lifted himself up to pull Cas’s hand away, keeping it trapped in his own while his other maneuvered Cas to a better position for him to kiss the spot on his head he’d be massaging. After a few seconds he trailed his lips down the side of his face, light, unhurried.

          “By the way,” he said casually, kissing him properly but still without demand, “People usually go for roses on Valentine’s Day.”

          “There are roses in there,” Cas said, confusion creasing his brow. Smiling, Dean kissed at the wrinkles across his forehead, too, and his nose and cheeks and the corners of his eyes and yeah, his mouth, too.

          Yeah, Sam was sappy. Dean just didn’t like to admit that—maybe—he might actually be worse.


End file.
